


the swan

by heartofstanding



Category: 15th Century CE RPF
Genre: (in a dream sequence), Arresting People For Treason Under False But Noble Pretences, Character Death, Experimental Style, Flashbacks, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Heavy Angst, Medicine Medieval, Nightmares, Suicide, Symbolism, Uncle-Nephew Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:21:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21818842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartofstanding/pseuds/heartofstanding
Summary: For Henry, the Duke of Gloucester was once the best man in the whole, wide world. But now he is a canker at the heart of the kingdom that Henry must deal with if he has to peace.
Relationships: Henry VI of England & Humphrey of Lancaster Duke of Gloucester
Comments: 6
Kudos: 11





	the swan

(the lake is cold. the sedge growing around its shores are withered, pale and—wind blows and ice is in the air. snow will fall. there are no birds—)

It is eleven o’clock in the morning of September the eighteenth in the year 1447. The air is bitter and the wind cuts through the stone, howling as if trying to speak. Henry is on his knees, his hands grasping a crucifix and he is praying. Let it all be averted. His uncle of Gloucester must not come, he must be ill and stay in Wales. His uncle is an ill man, it cannot be terribly wrong to wish he is so sick he cannot come to Bury St Edmunds.

Henry does not want to be so underhanded, so cruel – but he must have peace. He does not like the things he is doing to get it but he must have it. God, please, let Gloucester stay away.

Henry shivers, lowers his hands and stares at the crucifix in his hands, the gold face of Jesus staring back at him. He reaches out to run his fingers along the Crowns of Thorns, feels the barbs catch against his little finger. For a moment, he thinks to press down, to see if they are sharp enough to pierce skin but doesn’t. It would hurt too much. If he is not, he would not be praying so hard for his uncle to _stay away_ so they will not be able to arrest him. So Gloucester will not speak out against this peace – this beautiful, _necessary_ peace.

Once – once, Gloucester was his friend. The best man in the world. Once kind, understanding, patient, and now noxious, choleric, quarrelsome. He will not let things be. Gloucester is Henry’s enemy and he must stay away.

*

Margaret lays her hand against his shoulder, fingers flexing in. No, no, no. It is too soon. Henry has not finished his prayers, the day is too early, it is just past noon, they have not rung the bells for Vespers yet.

Henry cuts his prayers short, crosses himself and rises, his knees stiff and sore. He is shivering, dressed in clothes unsuited for the weather for all they make his prayers seem sharper and brighter. This is winter has been bitterly cold, the type of weather that makes him believe spring will never come. All he wants to do is lie in bed until winter passes.

In Margaret’s solar, there are men. Buckingham, Somerset, Beaumont, Suffolk and others. Somerset and Buckingham are glittering, all repressed energy and elation. Beaumont is stern-faced, Suffolk is wearing his mask. Henry stops, feels Margaret’s hand brush against his, and waits.

‘He came, your grace,’ says Beaumont. ‘Went straight to his lodgings as ordered—’

‘Never thought we’d see the day when _Gloucester_ did what he was told,’ mutters Somerset. Henry sees Margaret’s head move, quick as a snake, and Somerset falls silent at once.

‘—and we went to him after dinner and arrested him on the charges.’

Henry barely manages his nod. He knows what charges they would have told Gloucester. Attempting to raise a rebellion in Wales. Plotting to release his treasonous wife. Overthrowing Henry to place himself and that witch on the throne. Some more believable than others but all viable, all possible. Gloucester might even be guilty of them. Henry looks to Margaret, sees the tight, trembling press of her lips, the triumphant tilt of her head. Did she know the news before she fetched him?

‘You should have seen his face,’ Somerset says. He’s quiet, Henry’s not _meant_ to hear him but he does, and for a moment he is angry, so iridescently furious, he wants to strike Somerset. This is _his_ uncle, his father’s only surviving brother, and Somerset should keep his mouth shut if he must be so spiteful.

‘Henry,’ Margaret says, and Henry comes back to himself. She gives him a tremulous smile and this is what they wanted, what they planned. He cannot fault Somerset for his dislike of Gloucester nor for taking joy in their triumph.

‘He is guarded, yes?’ Henry says. ‘Not alone?’

‘Yes, your grace,’ Beaumont says. ‘Thomas Pulford and two others will keep him in his quarters, under strict custody. And we have removed him from the care of his own attendants.’

Three guards. Not many. Henry sees Suffolk look at Somerset, the resolution there. Tonight, he supposes, they will arrest some of Gloucester’s men to prove that Gloucester is dangerous.

‘We should celebrate,’ Henry says and his voice is too thin. ‘Food. Wine.’

(the swan is shackled. it had to be done. the swan is in a cage. there was no other way. this way it cannot tear and bite at hands and tender flesh. this way it is safe and they are safe. the swan is caged caged caged caged.)

In the evening, after Henry has prayed again, Suffolk comes with a pale-faced Beaumont and a shaking stranger. Suffolk is still wearing his mask, the careful concealment of what he feels for the display of consideration and respect for Henry.

‘You should sit down, your grace,’ Suffolk says.

Margaret guides him to a chair. Henry sits down and waits.

‘This is Thomas Pulford, your grace,’ says Beaumont, meaning the stranger. ‘He has been in charge of his grace, the Duke of Gloucester, and will report what has happened to you.’

This is not good, not good – but if Gloucester has done something mad and escaped, they would not all be here, standing above Henry, waiting for him to respond.

‘Well?’ Margaret says. ‘What has the duke been doing?’

Pulford’s eyes dart around the room, he licks his lips. ‘He’s been very angry and confused. Kept wanting to see the charges and wanted parchment and ink to draft his reply. He demanded to see the king.’

Of course he did, Henry thinks, stomach lurching. Gloucester will not go quietly. If they let him speak in parliament, he will deny it all with such a rousing speech that he will be acquitted by all and there will be no point to his arrest.

‘We had our orders,’ Pulford says. He speaks to the floor. ‘We let him read the charges as much as he liked, but told him he had to make do with what he had in his rooms and he wasn’t to see the king. That there was no hope of it.’ Pulford goes quiet. ‘Which might have been the problem.’

‘What has he done?’

They all look at each other and not at Henry. Henry’s hands clench together, want to wring.

‘He was writing and then he couldn’t,’ Pulford says. ‘Ink all over the table and his hand – his _arm_. And he was talking – well, shouting and grumbling – but he was slurring his words like he was drunk and he wasn’t.’

‘I don’t think we need to go into detail,’ Suffolk says, voice level. ‘He collapsed, your grace. The physician thinks it was a fit or apoplexy.’

‘But he is well?’ Henry says, hears his voice rising, echoing around the room and it’s too cold in here, too empty, and they stand so tall around him, arrayed like ancient trees, unmovable, strong and towering, casting deep shadows.

‘No,’ Suffolk says. He says it bluntly, as if it’s the kindest thing he can do. ‘No, your grace.’

‘But he will recover?’ Henry says. ‘Won’t he?’

He has said the wrong thing. Margaret looks aggrieved.

(the swan has flown from the nest. the swan is sleeping the swan is beautiful, long-necked and white and fierce and it loves its young and its mate and the swan is losing his feathers and the swan has flown from the lake.)

When Henry was little, very little, his uncle of Gloucester was the greatest man in the world. He let Henry run through the gardens and thought everything Henry showed him – funny leaves, interesting stones, a half-torn flower – were the most important treasures in the world. He held Henry’s hand and told him stories that didn’t all end in _and that’s how your father won France_ and came when Henry was scared and didn’t make him spend all night under his bed.

When he was a little older, Gloucester sat with him on the shores of a lake (they shouldn’t have sat, really – the ground was dirty and it wasn’t proper – but there was nowhere else to sit and his uncle didn’t mind things like that) and Henry told him about being in France, how he hadn’t liked it.

His uncle of Gloucester gave him the swan badge he was wearing and Henry held it, running his fingers over the edges, over the crown collaring its neck. It was the symbol of Henry’s grandmother’s family though she was dead long before Henry was born and Gloucester couldn’t remember her. Which made Henry sad without wanting to cry.

His uncle said that they – he meant Henry and himself – were like the swan of his badge, collared with a crown, not a live one which were all beautiful and wild. They bore a crown too – uncle’s was a ducal crown, but it didn’t really matter what kind it was – but they were collared by it. It was not power, it was not freedom – it was duty.

When Henry told the cardinal about it, the cardinal laughed and said, _if you are a swan, where are your wings? Your uncle is an odd creature but I’m fairly sure we would’ve noticed if he was sprouting feathers, wouldn’t we?_ He said other things too, things that weren’t that nice or funny, but kept at it until Henry was laughing and had forgotten his uncle’s words.

That was a long time ago.

*

Henry allows himself a short, warm bath and then goes to bed early. He waits for the hangings to be drawn before he pulls the covers up over his head and only just refrains from throwing himself under his bed like he used to when he was small. He feels very young, almost as if he is at Leeds Castle with his mother again and maybe, soon, his uncle of Gloucester will be coming to visit and take him down to feed the ducks and tell him more stories.

Henry is twenty-five years old, nearly two years married. His mother is dead. It is not seemly for a grown man to find a brace of ducks and feed them. His uncle is an ill man and no longer Henry’s friend.

‘Henry?’

Margaret is there, a shadow outside the bed hangings and Henry considers pretending he is asleep. He does not want to _talk._ She won’t understand. She does not know Gloucester, does not remember when he was sweet-tempered and kind rather than this canker at the heart of the kingdom. And if she did understand, what could Henry say? That he wished they hadn’t done it. _Gloucester was agitated._ Angry and confused. _He wanted to see Henry._ And now he has collapsed and hasn’t woken.

‘I know you’re awake,’ she says.

‘I don’t want to talk.’

‘We don’t have to talk,’ she says.

When then, does she want instead? He shudders and curls tighter. It would be nice, he thinks, to have someone to hold him. But it never really is _just_ holding with your wife, there are dangers. Sins. His confessor says so. Henry cannot, he will not.

‘Henry,’ she says. ‘I just want to see you. Make you’re not…’

_Not what?_ He says nothing and does nothing when the silhouette of her hand reaches out to touch the hangings. She twitches them back, her face shadowed in the gloom, and then she’s sitting on the bed beside him, brushing his hair back from his face.

‘Everything will be alright,’ she says. ‘All will be as it should be.’

‘And what is that?’ he asks.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘What does it even mean – all will be as it should be? What if Gloucester recovers and ruins the peace with France? Is that what _should_ be?’

Margaret is confused, her beautiful face collapsing. ‘But he won’t.’

‘So what _should_ be? That he dies?’

She looks away from him, towards the burning fire, and he regrets his words, the sharp edge of his tongue – should wash it out, blunt it, cut it out – and covers his face, his ears so he cannot hear anything more.

*

It is the nineteenth of February and early, too early. The world is not awash in sleet or blanketed by snow, but from the windows it is dark, no sign yet of the sun. Henry dresses in layers of fur and huddles close to the fire. Wonders if his uncle’s quarters are kept as warm as his own now that Gloucester cannot order the fires lit. But perhaps he is wrong. Perhaps Gloucester has woken already, has told his servants to bank the fires high (but he has no servants now, they took them from him, so he must have told Pulford) and is sitting there, blowing hot air onto his hands as he begins to write his defence.

Henry closes his eyes tightly, feels himself tilt even as he sits. He is not worried – Gloucester’s defence does not matter, he cannot speak it until they give him the voice to do so. They need him to be quiet, they do not need him guilty.

The bells ring for Matins and Henry gets up to go to mass.

*

There is no change to Gloucester’s condition.

*

It is the twentieth of February. There is no change to Gloucester’s condition.

*

‘You did not eat,’ Margaret says.

She stands in front of his chair and he cannot see past her. He cannot eat, his stomach is heavy and full of knots. He studies his hands, plays with the ragged skin around his nails, tearing at a loose piece until it hurts and bleeds. Margaret goes down on her knees and places her hands over his and he cannot see the wound. He imagines it leaving a smear of blood against her pale fingers.

‘Henry,’ Margaret says. ‘You did not eat. You need to eat.’

He thought he had fooled them, moving food around on his plate, raising his hand to his mouth – he has a vague memory of his uncle reading something while eating once, barely noticing what he put in his mouth, and Arthur – his uncle’s bastard – laughingly saying that you could put anything in front of him when he was reading and he’d eat it without even noticing. He dared Henry to put a live frog on Gloucester’s plate but Henry hadn’t, no matter how much Arthur made him laugh.

He wonders if Arthur is with Gloucester’s men, if he still tries to put frogs on his father’s plate in the hope they’ll be accidentally eaten.

He wonders if Arthur hates him now, if Gloucester’s intransigence and quarrelsome nature has been inherited. Arthur had always seemed too sweet-natured to have been Gloucester’s son but once Gloucester was kind.

And now he is lying in a bed unconscious.

‘I would like to see him, I think,’ he says.

Margaret’s face flickers. ‘See who?’

‘Gloucester.’

‘Oh,’ she says. ‘Well. I am not sure – he is not allowed to see you so…’

‘But he’s sleeping,’ Henry says.

‘Still,’ Margaret says and shrugs. ‘I think you should ask Suffolk about whether it is wise.’

He feels a small prickling of unease _._ He should not have to ask permission to visit his own uncle, his own prisoner. But he banishes it – Margaret just means he should seek Suffolk’s advice. Suffolk is wise and he understands Henry better than almost anyone, he will know what to do.

*

‘No,’ says Suffolk.

Henry feels his face twitch. Suffolk does not even look at him, his focus on the orange he holds in his hand. His thumbnail punctures the skin and he begins to peel it, tearing and rolling the skin away. The sharp, fresh scent of citrus bursts into the air and Henry does not look at Margaret, sitting by his side with her face held deliberately still.

‘He won’t wake,’ Henry says somewhat desperately. ‘And even if he does, I won’t – won’t pardon him or anything like that.’

‘Your grace,’ Suffolk says, looking up at last. ‘Gloucester has been charged with treason – _against you._ If you are seen visiting him, what does suggest?’

Henry shakes his head. He knows what Suffolk means – his visiting Gloucester will undermine the charges, suggest they are not as real or as dangerous as they have made out. Of course, Henry remembers with a spark of irritation that Suffolk said Gloucester was riding with an army and yet there were only eighty men with him.

‘I know you once cared for him,’ Suffolk says. ‘But it is not wise. It could undo everything we’ve worked for.’

‘Yes,’ Henry says and thinks of the peace with France. If only they could trust Gloucester to see reason and goodness. They would not have needed to arrest him in the first place.

(the swan is sickening. it plucks feathers from its own skin, will not eat, will lie its head down and sleep and not rise and if this does not stop, the swan will—)

There had been many times when Henry caught his uncle of Gloucester was looking at him most desperately, as if searching for someone else behind his eyes and not finding them. Looking for Henry’s _father,_ the man made of steel and glory. Henry had spent hours studying his father’s face, carved in stone or made with paints, and had spent years being told what his father was like and he still could not understand how his father could be all they said and still have been a living man. He was something between an angel and a demon, inhuman in ability and cleverness. He was everything Henry could not be.

Gloucester was not the only one who spoke of Henry’s father in glowing terms or held him up as an example to follow, as what Henry should be, but he was one of the worst and he seemed not to recognise Henry as a person at all, only saw the absence and the lack in Henry.

Henry was angry and he knew his tutor would not punish him for being cruel to Gloucester of all people. So when Gloucester sat down beside by the pond, knees cracking, Henry told him to be quiet.

‘I know what you’re going to say,’ Henry said. ‘You’ll use his name to shame me. Don’t you dare say his name.’

It was gratifying to see Gloucester turn away and cover his face with his hand. It felt almost good to be unkind, to use his father as a weapon when his father was so often a weapon used against him. _Your father wouldn’t do this, your father would never stand for it, you must be a brave and strong warrior like your father, this isn’t what your father wanted—_

‘You’re always talking about him and he’s dead, he’s stupid and he’s dead and if he hadn’t been so stupid we wouldn’t be in this mess,’ Henry said. ‘Do you think he loved you? Do you? When he left you? You dare to tell me that he loved me when he didn’t even see me, when he didn’t even love you and, and you’re so _annoying,_ how much you love him.’

Henry stopped and felt sick. He leant over and pressed his face to his knees. He could feel his face wet with tears, his chest shaking with sobs. He hadn’t wanted to be cruel. Hadn’t really wanted to hurt Gloucester.

Gloucester’s hand rested on his shoulder.

‘I know,’ he said. ‘I am an annoying old man and it’s hard for you to have to live up to him. God, it was hard enough for me – all three of them, they were so clever and brave and I just wanted to keep up with them.’

Henry sobbed and twisted, resting his face against Gloucester’s chest. ‘It’s all wrong.’

‘I know,’ Gloucester said. ‘And I know he loved us both, Henry, and he didn’t want to leave us.’

‘He did, though.’

Gloucester let out a long sigh and rubbed Henry’s back, waited until Henry’s tears had subsided. Henry lifted his head and stared out at the water, the brown-green shades in its depths, the ducks hunkered on the rocks.

‘Come,’ Gloucester said and his voice gentle. ‘We’ll call for some bread and feed these hungry ducks and then go inside.’

*

Gloucester is no better on the twenty-first.

More of his retinue is arrested in the evening. Amongst them is his bastard son. Arthur.

*

Faceby is squinting at the phial of Henry’s urine and Henry, cheeks aflame, tries unsuccessfully not to be embarrassed by this. It is, at least, less disconcerting than having Faceby palpitate his flesh or peer into his various orifices but not by much. He doesn’t think he is ill, only a little unsettled in his moods which is, Suffolk says, understandable given the circumstances. But he wishes Faceby will find some minor illness and prescribe a rest-cure so that Henry can stay in his bed all day and not have to do anything taxing like talking to people.

‘Everything seems fine, your grace,’ Faceby says. He hands the phial onto his assistant to dispose of. Henry wrinkles his nose. ‘Is there anything that concerns you?’

Henry smiles and doesn’t mean it. ‘Everything is concerning when you’re king.’

‘I suppose so, your grace.’

Henry watches Faceby and his assistant begin to pack away his implements. He thinks of his uncle, lying insensate in bed, and feels the stirrings of panic.

‘Do you know if Kymer is here? Gilbert Kymer?’

Faceby frowns. ‘Kymer? Well, I suppose he must be though I can’t swear to it.’

‘Oh,’ Henry says. ‘But do you know if the Duke of Gloucester has been attended by physicians?’

Faceby is flummoxed by this. ‘Is he ill? Well, I suppose there must be some… I really wouldn’t know, your grace.’

Henry bites his lip. He is not sure it is a good sign Faceby doesn’t know these things and he is not sure if he should _tell_ him, either – but no one said he couldn’t talk about Gloucester or his illness, only that Henry couldn’t go to see him and they had good reasons for that. There can’t be anything _bad_ in talking about Gloucester, can there? Not to his own physician, surely. And he trusts Faceby. He repeats what he’s been told.

(the swan was angry, hissing at his friends who only wanted to save him from himself. but it went wrong. the swan sounded wrong. the swan was knocking things over he didn’t mean to. and then the swan fell and couldn’t be roused.)

‘I would say apoplexy is a reasonable diagnosis,’ Faceby says when Henry has finished. ‘Though I can’t swear to it, of course.’

‘Will you find out?’ Henry asks.

‘I am not sure that is entirely—’

‘I don’t mean for you to attend to him,’ Henry says because he knows what Suffolk would say ( _you send your personal physician to attend to him, what does that suggest?_ ) and because something circles around the edges of his mind and pulls at idle thoughts until he’s certain he’ll unravel into doubt and fear if he asks too many questions.

‘Then what do you mean, your grace?’

‘I don’t know,’ Henry says. ‘I think is just worry – he was kind to me, once. He wasn’t always so disagreeable – sometimes I think the witch did it to him. Fed him her evil potions. No. There is no need to enquire about him, Faceby. I am sure he is getting the best care.’

*

‘The priest has been sitting with him,’ Beaumont is saying. ‘Taken his confession.’

‘Is that dire?’ Margaret says.

Henry is not sure he is meant to be hearing this. Margaret, Suffolk and Beaumont haven’t seen him standing in the doorway and their heads are together, their voices low.

‘Does that matter?’ Suffolk says sharply. ‘Did he say anything?’

‘I don’t know,’ Beaumont says. ‘The sanctity of the confessional—'

Henry pushes into the room. They all start and look up at him guiltily, though Suffolk’s eyes slide over to Margaret and he gives a minute shake of his head. Henry feels the stirrings of anger – how dare Suffolk try to dictate what Henry does and does not hear – and hastily quenches them.

‘What has happened?’

‘The Duke of Gloucester woke briefly, your grace,’ Beaumont says. ‘He was still very ill, though, so we allowed a priest to see him and take his confession.’

‘Briefly,’ Henry says. ‘What does that mean?’

‘I—’ Beaumont’s eyes move towards Suffolk. ‘Briefly, as in he was weary and went back to sleep after the priest left.’

‘Oh,’ Henry says. ‘Oh. Did he – did he say anything? To you, I mean.’

‘Nothing of terrible importance,’ Beaumont says. ‘Or anything that made much sense.’

‘What did he say?’

‘That he was cold,’ Beaumont says.

(the swan shivers and shivers and shivers.)

Swans, Henry was told, mate for life. Even if a swan laid down with a viper, they would love it and return to it, day after day, night after night, drinking down its poison.

Henry can remember seeing Gloucester with his wife many times. Eleanor. She isn’t a duchess anymore, isn’t much of anything besides a treasonous witch locked up. A caged viper. Henry liked her once, thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world.

_Witchcraft,_ the cardinal said, _sold her soul._

Taken Gloucester’s soul for her own, more like. He doted on her, always touching her, always looking to her. And she seemed harmless beside him, pleasant and ignorant – a result of her low birth, Somerset said – and she sweetened the sourness of Gloucester’s visits.

But she had been unmasked. A sorceress, a liar, a traitor, a witch, a viper. Gloucester had been fed love potions (and Henry feared she had slipped him one too), bewitched into doting on her and no doubt she hardened his heart against Henry. She disassembled with her pleasantries, hid herself, but they found her out.

Suffolk said there was no cure for Gloucester, the witch a noose around his neck. He sat in his palace and wept and did nothing. He should have disowned her. He should have taken penance to scour away her spells and free himself. He should have found a way to force her out of sanctuary so she could be properly punished. And therefore, Suffolk said, Gloucester could never again be trusted.

*

Henry retires to bed early and lies on his side, one of his cats – Gabriel – curled up under his chin, the others spotted around the bed. He is safe and warm and he thinks Margaret will not come to him tonight, is not concerned for him. He breathes in, feels Gabriel rise, turn and lie down, purring.

Gloucester awoke. Gloucester spoke. That is a good sign, isn’t it? He is recovering. He will be well again, he will go quietly to his prison and sit there, silent and good, until all is settled and it is safe to let him out. This is all God’s will, surely – perhaps the illness was necessary to chasten Gloucester and now chastened, he will be a good and true subject and he will forget the viper and all shall be as it should be.

Unless God let a guilty man recover so he may be shriven—

Unless God let an innocent man be spared the indignity of—

No.

Henry rolls onto his belly, buries his face in the pillow. All is as it should be. All is as it should be. All is as it should be.

Gabriel stands up, stretches and walks onto Henry’s back, paws heavy.

All is as it should be.

*

It is dark. So very, very dark. Henry cannot see anything but the blackness of his surrounds, or even his own body. Someone is sobbing. _Dame Eleanor,_ he thinks and steps forward – his aunt should not weep so, she should fair and merry as flowers dancing in a May wind, a bird singing to greet the dawn—

No. No. She is no bird or flower but a viper and she must bear her griefs for the penance of her sins, her _crimes_ – they changed the law so others who thought like her would be punished as they should be, not left to live and brood on their evil. Even if he sometimes remembers the thought of her burning and still wants to be sick. The voice that cries within him, still, _she should not die like that._ Her skin blistering and peeling, the flames cooking her flesh to blackened ruin, her bright hair turned to ash, and her voice screaming.

But why does she weep, why can she not simply be silent and repent of her shame, of her evil. _A snake will be poisoned by its own venom,_ the cardinal used to say. Henry steps towards her again, not sure what he intends to do, and sees the darkness begin to fade. He recognises this place, the high, barred window in the door, the filth on the floor, the rags strewn in one corner, the smell of brine and excrement, the sound of winds and waves crashing against the rocks. The dungeon of Peel Castle, on the Isle of Man. He has never been here before but he knows it at once.

Eleanor is there, as fair as he remembers her, lying on the rags and dressed in a shift so white it glows. Her lips mouth soundlessly and he flinches back – is she witching again, trying to snare him in a spell? But no, her Paternoster beads slip soundlessly over slender, white fingers. She is praying.

‘Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us,’ she whispers. Tears roll down her cheeks. ‘And deliver us from evil. Amen—’

A flash of silver steel, a tooth-like knife appears in Eleanor’s hand – witchcraft! – and Henry runs. He throws himself at the door, scrambling for the handle. The witch, the viper – she’ll kill him. It’s what she’s always wanted to do, always—

The door opens, he falls through it, makes the mistake of looking back.

She is dead. The knife has been driven deep into her breast, and her blood, so red, has stained her shift and now spreads across the floor. It coats the filth, reaches out to Henry with long fingers.

He runs. The corridors are dark and full of twisting passages. He sees shadows like wolves with leering grins, floors stained red with blood, a woman’s body mangled beneath stones, starving children. He turns down one corridor, ablaze with light, and a huge antelope blocks his way, its breath fiery and maw bloodied. It smiles at him, revealing knife-life teeth.

One tooth is missing.

He stops, stumbling, and thinks he must turn back. But the antelope bows to him and lets him pass, obedient as an old dog. He breathes in and keeps going. When he looks back the antelope is gone.

Now, at last, he finds himself wandering in an empty hallway. It reminds him of Bella Court, Gloucester’s palace at Greenwich, but no longer full of light, music and colour. It feels neglected. The tapestries are faded and unravelling, stained with smoke and ash. He traces the petals of one embroidered violet, feels the threads move under his finger. Dust hangs in the air, caught in dull light filtered through filthy windows and floors are strewn with dead leaves and scattered petals.

He presses his hand against a carved wooden door as he hears fragments of music, of conversation that vanish and fade as if a wind blows them away.

The door opens under his hand and the room is dark save the light leaking in past shuttered windows and a smouldering fire. There is a vase of dying roses on a table and beyond that, a bed, the hangings drawn. Behind them is the sound of someone struggling to breathe. Henry’s heart leaps into his throat and he steps forward, hand shaking as he reaches out, wrenches the hangings apart—

*

Henry wakes up, gasping for air, and throws himself off the bed, onto the floor. He struggles to free himself from his hangings, hears the dull thud as one of his cats jumps down onto the floor and pads towards the fire, tail held high. Henry lays his hand across his thumping heart, feels the ache in his thigh from where he hit the floor. He lets out a sigh. It was only a dream. Just a dream.

He crawls over to his prie-dieu and kneels there, fumbling for the crucifix, his Paternoster beads. He begins to recite the prayers by rote, the words familiar and easy. He lays his hands on his psalter, closes his eyes and sees again the flash of a tooth-like knife, blood spreading across the floor as he murmurs the Paternoster. _Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us._ He jerks his eyes open.

‘Only a dream,’ he says to the dark. ‘All is as it should be.’

(the swan shivers and shivers and shivers.)

Margaret says he looks pale in the morning. It is Thursday, the twenty-third of February and six days since Gloucester came to Bury St Edmunds and was arrested and only one day since he awoke. Henry mutters something about sleeping poorly and her face goes open and sympathetic.

‘Why not?’

He shrugs. He doesn’t want to tell her about the dream or about waking and praying until the night gave way to the dawn. She will read too much into them, see his dreams as a kind of frailty, seek to soothe his conscience too much.

‘Henry,’ she says.

‘It’s time for Prime,’ he says. ‘I must go, Margaret.’

She gathers her skirts with long, white fingers and follows him. ‘Do you pray for him?’ she says. ‘Even though he is your enemy?’

‘That is unproven,’ he says. ‘And I pray for everyone, whether they are enemies or not.’

Her face spasms and she laughs, turning away from him.

‘What?’ he says. ‘Do you think that… amusing?’

‘No,’ Margaret says. ‘No. But you are sweet, my husband. I did not think a man could be so…’

_So what,_ he wants to say. Simple, naïve, innocent, foolish?

‘Kind,’ she says.

*

After they have broken their fast – and Henry thinks he has eaten enough, surely, to cure Margaret’s worry, leaving only a smear of egg yolk and crusts of bread – Margaret declares she wishes to go outside. It is cold but she is tired of being enclosed and breathing in fire-smoke. Henry thinks of praying in preparation for the Sext service but Margaret asks if he will come and if her words are a question, her eyes make it clear what his answer should be. He agrees and offers her his arm.

There is not much to see in the gardens, most of it is bare and leafless and the things that don’t seem to be ailing in the ice-like wind. The sky is grey with cloud. He wonders if it will snow. But the air, at least, is so fresh it stings his eyes and makes them water.

‘You are upset about Gloucester,’ Margaret says carefully. ‘Though Suffolk thinks you should not be and Somerset would have us celebrate.’

‘I don’t want to speak about this,’ he says.

‘But I think you need to,’ Margaret says. ‘Or else, my love, you will get lost in your head.’

She pauses and he says nothing. She sighs.

‘He was not always ranged against you,’ she says quietly.

‘No,’ Henry says. ‘He was not.’

She waits again.

‘When I was little – very little – I thought he was the greatest man alive,’ Henry says. ‘I suppose I had little in the way of reason, then. But he _was_ different – kindlier, I think. Indulgent.’

‘How?’

‘He’d take me to feed the ducks,’ Henry says, cheeks firing. ‘I remember, when I came back from France, I was sick and tired of being made to _do things_ – stand there, do this, say that. Be a _proper_ king. And I was still queasy from the ship.’

Margaret nods sympathetically, her hand squeezing his.

‘And as soon as he saw me, he just took me down to a pond and had bread brought. We just sat there feeding the ducks until the bread was all gone and I felt – felt like myself.’

‘But something must have changed,’ Margaret says.

*

His uncle was staring at the swans from the window. Henry wished he was little enough that he could tug on his uncle’s sleeve and be lifted up and they could watch the swans in companionable silence until everything was right again. But he wasn’t little, not anymore.

‘Uncle,’ he said. Gloucester did not turn. Henry winced and gathered his courage, made his voice sharp. ‘Attend to me, Gloucester.’

Gloucester turned and bowed. When he rose, his eyes were blank. ‘What duty would you have me do, your grace?’

Henry couldn’t find his voice. He felt the urge to be cruel – that word, _duty._ All his life, he had been told what his duty was, what he must do. It was a collar, a noose, around his neck and he had begun to break free of it, despite Gloucester’s protests.

‘You have made it clear that I am of no note,’ Gloucester said eventually. ‘A curiosity, something to laugh at. I find hard to fathom that you have changed your mind.’

‘No,’ Henry said and he was lost and Gloucester’s eyes remained blank. ‘But you are bound to me and I will not brook rebellion.’

‘Will you not?’ Gloucester said. His voice was very quiet. ‘Your—’

‘Do not say his name!’ Henry said. ‘I am my own self, my own king – I will no longer pretend to be anything like him.’

Gloucester said nothing at first. Then, ‘A good king listens to all counsel, your grace, not merely ones that tell him what he wishes to hear.’

‘I will have peace. I will do what my father could never do – make peace, put an end to this war.’

‘And you will buy it at whatever cost,’ Gloucester said. ‘Normandy, Harfleur, Calais – perhaps even the crown of England itself. It is untenable and shameful and you must have it – providing the false Dauphin will even let you.’

‘It is better than a never-ending war.’

‘Is it? The men who have fought in France will not thank you for capitulation in the name of this peace,’ Gloucester said. ‘The men who died – have they died for nothing?’

‘Suffolk understands – Suffolk fights for this peace as I do.’

‘Of course he does. As for myself, I am glad that my brothers did not live to see what they fought and died for thrown away so lightly – and I am envious of them.’

Henry felt a surge of anger. ‘Because you are more loyal to dead men and witches than me. Your king, your nephew,’ he said. ‘Get out, leave. I will not hear this.’

Gloucester’s look was mutinous but he bowed and left.

*

Henry shrugs. ‘I don’t know what changed.’

‘Something must have,’ Margaret says.

‘I got older, I suppose,’ Henry says. ‘Then there was his wife. And he wants the war to go on and on and on. He doesn’t see what it’s really like now but I do and I want it to end. It must end, Margaret.’

‘It will,’ Margaret says gently. ‘Because of what we have done. Gloucester would have opposed it but we will now have peace.’

‘I know.’ Henry says. ‘All will be as it should be.’

*

After their walk, he sees Margaret talking quite seriously to Suffolk. She glances over at him, goes still when she realises he is watching and then smiles. Henry feels his cheeks heat and turns away, focuses his attention on the Paternoster beads in his hand. He rolls them through his fingers. _Forgive us our trespasses. Deliver us from evil._ He sets them down, smooths his hands over his psalter. Prayer. That is what he needs. Something to settle his mind, open up his heart, banish that one voice in the back of his head that says something is wrong.

(the swan shivers and shivers.)

They sing his father’s _Sanctus_ at the Sext service with solemn, echoing voices. He wishes they would not but it is _Agnus Dei_ that hurts the most. He clutches his crucifix to his heart, bows his head so they will not see him weep. A plea for mercy, a plea for peace. What is he supposed to do, when the quest for peace demands that no mercy be shown? Oh Gloucester, he thinks, if only you had been willing to work with us.

But Gloucester has awoken. There is still time for mercy.

Henry will go to him. Not immediately, of course, he must have dinner and then attend the service at None and they are supposed to see a mystery play in the afternoon. But after, he will go to Gloucester – if Suffolk says, _if you are seen visiting him, what does that suggest_ again _,_ Henry will talk of disguises – and he will explain everything.

They must have peace with France and he knows Gloucester would do his best to wreck it, but he will be kept comfortable and secure, and when peace is made, Gloucester will face a trial of sorts but he will be allowed to go free then. Never to have power again, but free and with no fear for his future.

Mercy and peace, Henry thinks.

(the swan shall be warm and well again and it will come back to the lake and lay down in its nest and wait. winter will pass and the sun will shine and all will be blessed.)

Why is it, Henry wonders, that the child is always sacrificed for the father? The father never says, _no, you shall not hurt, you shall not die,_ and takes the blow himself, but raises the knife to take his own child’s life. Isn’t it a father’s duty to provide for his son, rather than ask for his life? Of course, it is God’s wisdom, the sacrifice of Isaac became the sacrifice of Christ, and Henry should not think such blasphemy.

Henry closes his eyes, feels Margaret’s hand grasp his own. Smells the sweetness of her perfume, lilies and something sweeter still. It is a good play and he must remember to thank the performers, but moreover, he must speak to his confessor, take penance for his blasphemous thoughts.

The bells are ringing for Vespers and the performers do not even flinch. Henry shifts in his chair, turning his head to look for the window. The room is unsettled, some barely paying attention to the mystery play. York is not there and Henry has seen him, pale and stiff, saying very little. York, he knows, is close to Gloucester – perhaps he is fearful. But York is reasonable and Gloucester is not. York can be trusted to do nothing. Henry turns his attention back to the performance.

‘Now, heart, why wouldest thou not break on three?’ Abraham says.

The sun shines through stained glass, colouring Abraham’s face blood-red.

Henry’s stomach crawls and he looks away. A girl is playing with a toy bird. She makes it fly, bobbing it through the air, and then land on her mother’s arm. Henry smiles. She sees him watching and her eyes grow huge. He raises his finger to his lips.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Margaret sharply twist in her chair, looking not at him but at Suffolk. Henry turns as well. A man is approaching, body slunk low as if he wishes to escape notice, face white. He clutches his hat in his hands. He kneels and whispers to Suffolk. Suffolk listens intently, his face giving nothing away even as he claps the man’s shoulder and sends him away. He turns back to face the play and Henry does as well, wondering what that is about.

It is only later, when Abraham speaks his last —

_A, Lord of heaven, I thank thee,_

_For now I may lead home with me_

_Isaac, my young son so free_

_The gentlest child above all other_

_Now go we forth, my blessed son._

— Henry remembers he knows the man. Pulford.

*

‘Your grace,’ Suffolk says. ‘You should sit down.’

‘No,’ Henry says, pacing and agitated. ‘No. _Tell me_. What has happened? What did Pulford say?’

‘Please, Henry,’ Margaret says, and takes his arm, leading him over to his chair. Her hands slide to his shoulders and press down. He sits.

‘There. I am sitting. What has happened?’

Suffolk looks at Margaret and then sits down himself, pressing his head into his hands, Henry feels himself growing impatient, his temper fraying. Why will Suffolk not just _say_ what has happened so they may deal with it? If Gloucester has escaped or done something foolhardy that risks unravelling their plans, the sooner they know, the better they can react and move to thwart him. Their peace is fragile and desperate, they must not risk it for anything.

‘We will need to change our plans, a little,’ Suffolk says. ‘Bring the men of Gloucester’s retinue to trial. Make them bear the punishment of their crimes.’

‘I thought—’ Henry says and falls silent when Suffolk raises his head and stares at him.

‘I know what we planned,’ Suffolk says. ‘But the situation has changed and we must – must change our plans.’

‘ _What_ has changed?’ Margaret, her voice as sharp as a sword.

‘Gloucester died,’ Suffolk says. ‘It appears he had another fit in his sleep and he—’

(the swan is—)

Uncle Gloucester was the best man in the whole, wide world. He was so strong he could pick Henry up with one arm and he’d put Henry on his shoulders and Henry could see the whole, wide world. He liked the swans on uncle’s clothes, liked to rest his chin on his uncle’s hat and know he was safe and loved. Uncle told him the _best_ stories and Henry knew that his uncle would like watching the ducks just as much as Henry did. Might even pick him up and let Henry sit on his lap to watch, might even have special stories about ducks.

His uncle was coming today. Henry settled himself in front of the window overlooking the gate, waiting to see his uncle’s banners.

(the swan is—)

No. It is not possible. Henry is to go to Gloucester, make him _understand,_ treat him with mercy and pity. They are to be made friends again. This is a mistake

‘He was awake yesterday,’ Henry says. ‘He was! Beaumont said he spoke! And now, now you say he is—’

Henry covers his face with shaking hands. Why did Suffolk have to speak – if he kept his silence, Gloucester would still be alive. But he spoke and now everything is beyond salvation. Henry hits his hand against the armrest of his chair. What good is pity and mercy when those you would bestow it on are already dead?

‘He is dead, your grace,’ Suffolk says gently. ‘It would have been painless.’

‘I don’t care,’ Henry says. ‘I don’t want him dead. He’s useless to me dead. Bring him back.’

Suffolk raises his hands. ‘Your grace.’

‘This was all your idea,’ Henry spits. ‘Yours and Somerset’s and Margaret’s and – he was meant to be _safe._ ’

‘Your grace—’

‘Bring him back.’

‘He’s dead, Henry,’ Margaret says and lays her hand on his arm again. ‘No one can bring him back.’

(the sedge has withered from the lake. wind blows and blows. there is no respite. ice and snow are in the air and no birds sing. henry does not understand. the swan is gone and the broken world holds.)

**Author's Note:**

> The swan was Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester's best-known heraldic badge and it appears that he was referred to as "the swan" in one political poem/song written after his death. The badge was derived from Bohun ancestry and was also a badge used by Henry V and, later, Henry VI's son, Edward of Westminster. The best example of this badge is [the Dunstable Swan](https://research.britishmuseum.org/research/collection_online/collection_object_details.aspx?objectId=43749&partId=1). Amongst Henry VI's heraldic badges was the antelope. 
> 
> My reconstruction of the events leading up to Gloucester's death was sourced from Lauren Johnson's _Shadow King: The Life and Death of Henry VI_ (Head of Zeus, 2019), Matthew Lewis's _Richard, Duke of York: King by Right_ (Amberley, 2017), J. Davis's _Duke Humphrey: A Sidelight on Lancastrian England_ , K. H. Vickers' _Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester: A Biography_ ([Project Gutenberg, 2012](http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/41477) (first published 1908)) and Susan Saygin's _Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester (1390-1447) and the Italian Humanists_ (Brill, 2002).
> 
> Frustratingly, I could find little detail on what Henry himself was doing on a day-to-day basis around Gloucester's events. I borrowed the idea of Henry watching a mystery play from Margaret Frazer's mystery-novel about Gloucester's death, _The Bastard's Tale_ and the mystery play I quoted from is _The Brome play of Abraham and Isaac_. You can read the full play [here [pdf]](https://wwnorton.com/college/english/nael/noa/pdf/13BromePlay_1_12.pdf). I must also thank shredsandpatches/angevin2 for linking it to me when I was looking for a mystery play (for a completely different, still unwritten fic).
> 
> While it was tedious but fairly simple to construct a timeline of events leading from Gloucester's arrest to his death, it was harder to answer the big questions I had about Gloucester's arrest and death. Historians generally agree that Gloucester died from "natural causes" - a stroke or heart attack brought on by the stress of his arrest - rather than the contemporary rumours of murder. But what would have happened to the arrested Gloucester if he hadn't died naturally? How would have the plot against him unfolded if he hadn't died? And what was the level of Henry VI's involvement in the plot? Lauren Johnson states that he must have approved of the move against Gloucester and frames it as a sacrifice made for the peace with France (a sacrifice that, ultimately, was for nothing - the potential peace treaty Henry hopes for was never made due to Charles VII's disinterest). But to what extent did Henry know of and approve of the plan to disgrace Gloucester? Was he aware that the accusations were, in all likelihood, false? Was he prepared to sanction the murder or execution of his uncle to secure this peace?
> 
> I haven't managed to answer any of these questions in this fic. I guess that's what the hypothetical sequel's for! Henry, here, is characterised is approving, motivated by a desire for the greater good, but largely ignorant of what the plot will entail beyond getting Gloucester out of the way and keeping him comfortable. For me, it was a way to balance the fact that Henry had to have known and approved with his sweet nature but I couldn't argue it is a well-evidenced take.
> 
> "The cardinal" is a reference to Cardinal Henry Beaufort, Gloucester's great rival.
> 
> Faceby was one of Henry VI's physicians, the examination of urine was a standard medieval medical practice. Kymer was one of the most notable of Gloucester's physicians and was probably at Bury St Edmunds during this time.
> 
> Eleanor Cobham was married to Gloucester from c. 1428 to 1441. She was accused of plotting to kill Henry in order to place herself and Gloucester on the throne, divorced from Gloucester and imprisoned for the remainder of her life. She was imprisoned in Peel Castle from 1446-1449 and would die in 1452, still a prisoner. Henry's behaviour around her is somewhat confusing. Their relationship prior to the accusations seems to have been amicable and he did send her presents during her imprisonment. However, he seems to have genuinely believed the accusations and had a woman, Juliana Ridligo, pressed to death for castigating him over Eleanor's treatment. 
> 
> Gloucester's references to Henry making "it clear that [he is] of no note... A curiosity, something to laugh at..." actually reflects an incident on 15 July 1445 where Henry signalled his disdain for Gloucester's political opinions to French envoys and members of his own government. 
> 
> "His father's _Sanctus_ " refers to the 'Roy Henry' composition, which can be heard [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-8UF6VwOXnE). There's some debate whether "Roy Henry" was Henry IV or Henry V but I've opted for Henry V.


End file.
